


Soiled Westwood and a Wrinkled Armani

by playmelikeyourstratovarius



Series: He Needs Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt, M/M, Pain, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playmelikeyourstratovarius/pseuds/playmelikeyourstratovarius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I thought we weren't going to do this anymore."<br/>"We're not."</p><p>My very first Jimlock fic...bear with me! X.X I promise I'll get better at it, with time!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soiled Westwood and a Wrinkled Armani

Of all the people to wind up on his doorstep, Jim never expected to see Sherlock Holmes, soaked through by the rain and shivering, eyes bloodshot and puffy. He had been crying, had been walking around in the rain for ages to forget about that. To make it seem like he hadn’t been. Jim could do nothing but stare at him, mouth opening and closing, looking for something to say.

“I know that we said we were done with this,” the consulting detective said, his voice wavering. Jim wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from nerves or from both at once. “But John and I had a fight, and he said that he didn’t want to see me for a while.”

“So you came...here.” Jim’s tone was skeptical, as if he couldn’t believe that of all the places in London that he could go, Sherlock had come to him, sought him out to find some sort of comfort. “What would you do if I turned you away? If I sent you back out into the rain, to wander around until your precious doctor called you back?” Even as he was saying the words, he was stepping aside, letting Sherlock into his flat, closing the door behind him.

“I knew that you wouldn’t send me away, Jim. You’re too selfish.” Lanky arms and a slim torso worked in unison to shrug off a sopping wet coat. “You like destroying yourself too much.”

Jim swallowed hard, frowning. It was true. There would always be a part of him that loved the heartbreak he felt every time that Sherlock left him. “You assume too much.”

“No.” Sherlock smirked, handing his coat to Jim. “Deduction, based on nothing but facts.”

Jim hummed, moving to hang the detective’s coat by the fireplace to dry. “Do you need something dry to wear?”

“I doubt you would have anything that would fit me.”

“I have your purple silk dressing gown.”

“I thought I told you that I wanted you to get rid of that.” Sherlock sounded like he was reprimanding Jim, but his lips were quirked upwards into an almost smile, and his eyes were bright in the light from the fire.

“I thought you told me that you were never coming back again.” Jim sauntered off towards his bedroom, humming a jaunty tune. When he returned, with the fine violet silk draped over his arm, Sherlock was standing before the fire in just his pants. His jaw dropped. “Sher--”

“My clothes were wet.”

It was a simple statement, an obvious one, too. It wasn’t like Sherlock Holmes to be obvious, say obvious things, be so ordinary. “Right, but did you have to--”

“The fire is warm.”

“I understand that, but couldn’t you have--”

“Waited for you to get back? That would have been a treat, wouldn’t it have been, for you to watch me take my clothes off?”

Jim swallowed, brow furrowing as he held the robe out for Sherlock and the detective plucked it from his hand. “I wouldn’t have /watched/ you,” he said indignantly.

“No, you would have /admired/ me, right?”

“That’s all I ever do. That’s what people /do/, right? Admire the men that they secretly pine over?”

“Not a very good secret-keeper, are you Jimmy?” Sherlock smirked as he tied the sash, hiding the milk-white, toned torso from Jim’s view.

The consulting criminal lifted his dark eyes to meet the pale ones of the detective before him, made paler by the orange flickering of the fire. “You know how much I adore you, Sherly.”

“You shouldn’t, you know. I have John now, and he and I are quite hap--”

“Then why are you /here/!” All humour was gone from Jim’s voice, all sense of playful camaraderie. “Why would you come to /me/! If the doctor is so good at keeping you happy, making you feel like your life has a purpose!” He snorted, scrubbing his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “It doesn’t, you know. Your life has no purpose. You’re born, you dance around death for years and years, and then he finally catches up to you. That’s /it/.”

Sherlock was staring at him now, eyes narrowed and lips pursed into a grim line. “I know.”

“Then why kid yourself!” Jim didn’t remember when exactly he had started shouting.

“Because it’s nice to pretend that I’m normal sometimes! That I can have a normal life with an ordinary person who loves me!” Sherlock was shouting back now, and it really looked like it was causing the detective pain to be yelling at Jim like this.

The consulting criminal took a step closer. “He’s so boring,” he mumbled, reaching out, his fingers trailing along the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. The resulting shiver made him lick his lips, almost ferally. “What about me? You and I, Sherlock, we’re two halves of the same whole. I’m extraordinary. You’re brilliant. We could be so happy.”

“I thought we promised that we weren’t going to do this anymore,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes dropping to where Jim’s fingers still rested against his wrist. Jim watched, holding his breath as the long, slender violinist’s fingers slipped through his.

“We aren’t,” Jim said back, his voice just barely above a whisper. His body moved closer to the taller, slimmer man standing before him, framed by firelight, until his face was so close to Sherlock’s, lips barely an inch apart.

“I miss you,” Sherlock rumbled, empty hand lifting to cup Jim’s jaw. “No one knows me like you do, Jimmy. No one understands me like you.”

“No one ever will.”

All of a sudden, their lips were crushed together again, clinging to each other, Sherlock’s hands scrubbing and tugging at Jim’s hair, Jim’s hands fisting into the smooth silk covering the small of Sherlock’s back. The detective was pulling and the criminal was pushing, and they were stumbling through the door to Jim’s bedroom, crashing down onto 1600-count sheets.

Normally, Jim would be more concerned with the state of his Westwood, being stripped from his body and tossed onto the floor in a rumpled heap. God, it would be unwearable now, wrinkled and useless from laying on the hardwood floor. But that wasn’t what his mind was focused on - or at least, not the majority of his mind. He was enthralled by the quick, clever tongue, with the beautiful Cupid’s bow that he alternately nipped and soothed with his own tongue.

Pale skin met pale skin, and a soft, needy whimper left the detective below him. Too much, not enough. Need more, need less. He was in nothing but his pants now, too, silk sliding over silk, the burning hot feeling of arousal beneath him, against him, consuming him.

Jim removed the final layer, adding it to the pile of abandoned Westwood, leaving the two of them pressing against each other, eyes locked. Sherlock was panting, pleading with his glowing aquamarine eyes. Lubricant, precious moments used, wasted, preparing himself so that there wouldn’t be any pain, nothing more than the slight burn that came with the stretch.

Slow pushing, and Jim was inside, the whole way inside, muscles trembling. He could tell, just laying here like this, Sherlock beneath him, wrapping long limbs around him, that the doctor never took the detective this way. It was the other way around, it had to be. Why? Why change the way things were done for years, just to sate an ordinary person.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle rock of narrow hips, a gentle whimper. There was nothing left to think about now, just Sherlock beneath him, wrapped around him, consuming him. Trying to become a part of that beautiful, lithe body. Too close, not close enough. The sounds leaving the beautiful mouth attached to the most beautiful man Jim had ever seen, echoing at first around his mouth and then around the entire room when the criminal pulled away to rest his nose against Sherlock’s pulse point, remembering his scent, trying to file away everything about this moment for later, when he was alone again.

Because the loneliness was bound to come back.

A sharp cry, a moment of vulnerability, and they were both teetering on the edge together, finally spilling over with whispered chants of each other’s name. Jim collapsed beside Sherlock, still tangled in long limbs, pulling the body closer, both of them covered in a soft sheen of sweat. It was like that for hours - three hours and seventeen minutes, and forty-two seconds, if Jim were to be precise - before Sherlock was peeling his body away from him, sitting up and moving to sit at the edge of the bed.

It was Jim’s grey Westwood silk tie that Sherlock picked up off of the floor to wipe his stomach off with. The consulting criminal normally would have been furious. But not now, not with the scene that was about to unravel between them. It was the same game every time.

So why was Jim so torn over this round?

“Don’t go,” he murmured, his hand flying out and gripping Sherlock’s bony wrist as he stood. “Stay here, with me.”

“I have to go, Jim. You know the rules of this game. You made them up.” Sherlock didn’t look at him, just shook off the hand that bound him and moved out of the room, towards the sitting room where the blazing fire had long since dried his clothing.

Jim tugged the sheet from his bed, wrapping it around himself. It was usually Sherlock that walked around like this, in nothing but his cornflower blue sheets. The irony made Jim want to scream. “He’s so ordinary. You’re bored, I can see how bored you are. Stay here with me. I...I can entertain you, distract you. We can be happy, together.”

“Wasn’t it you that was just saying that there’s not a point to life? Wouldn’t it follow that happiness is nothing but a waste of time?” Sherlock smirked at Jim, eyes narrowed as he buttoned his shirt over his slim torso. Jim could feel the soul being leeched out of him with every damn button.

“Yes, but--”

“There are no buts when it comes to things like this, Jim. You seem to believe that you’re always right, so I’m letting you be right this time.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, whipping his coat about his form and pushing his arms through the sleeves.

“Sherlock, please.”

That froze the detective in his tracks, stilling until he looked like a statue, a mannequin modeling slightly wrinkled Armani. His eyes - cold and steely-blue now - regarded Jim with something between wonder and disgust.

“Sherlock, please stay with me. Don’t go back to him again.” James Moriarty didn’t plead. Not with anyone. Sherlock Holmes had always been his exception. To everything.

“He loves me, Jim,” the taller man whispered after a long moment. “And...and I love him back.”

“But, Sherlock--”

“Don’t you dare say it.” Sharp and cold and commanding. Sherlock was more like his older brother than he would like to admit.

“Sherlock, I--”

“Jim. Jimmy. Please.” Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t make this harder than it is.”

“I love you.” The words felt bittersweet, a glorious admission and a sorrowful farewell, all wrapped up in one. It was his last hope, his last plea. The gleam in Sherlock’s eye, the flicker of green was hope for him. He held his breath for just a moment.

But then it was gone. “He needs me.”

Jim shook his head, his hands fisting into the material of his sheet. “I need you more. Your mind, Sherlock, you’re the only one who comes close to me in intelligence. John has friends and family. What do I have?”

“Nothing, Jim. You have nothing.”

And with that, Sherlock Holmes whisked out his door, out of his flat, out of his life. The pain was unbearable, indescribable. He felt like his world was crashing down around him, like Sherlock Holmes had scorched the very core out of him.

James Moriarty had never been this close to tears before in his life, not that he could remember, anyway, and it was all jealousy, jealousy for that idiotic doctor John Watson. It was John’s fault that he had gotten hurt, gotten burned. Would Sherlock have come back to him again, if John was out of the picture? Certainly, if only for a distraction from his boredom (and his unadmitted sorrow). John never had to feel this emptiness, and Jim knew that it would crumble him, absolutely crush him if he ever did.

It was then that Jim decided Sherlock Holmes had to die.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Any and all feedback (even negative) is welcome and encouraged! Leave a comment here, or you may leave one [in my tumblr ask box](http://playmelikeyourstratovarius.tumblr.com), if you'd like to leave something anonymously. Thank you guys so much!
> 
> ALSO, a huge thanks to my best friend Katelyn for being my beta~


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